The Turning Coin
by silverscrawl
Summary: Arthur is dead, and Merlin finds himself alone with a slipping grip on his magic and his sanity. But there is more than mourning that the dead have left in their wake, and when a vulnerable Camelot comes under threat, he must decide which ghosts to heed and which to leave behind...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story picks up where Arthur's death left off, and is therefore heavy on the angst at times. However, it won't indulge for the sake of indulgence, and will have a plot in its own right in addition to exploring the effect on all of the characters-particularly Merlin-that we did not get to see. And it won't be totally lacking in Arthur either-there is magic about, after all! But for now, this first chapter is about the beginning of Merlin's long wait and his loss.**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

And everything ended.

Or it should have done, Merlin thought, or rather it almost did. It certainly felt like it, in that he felt a strange kind of nothing. Nothing to fight for. Nothing to reason with. He was just…nothing.

And yet he could still feel the icy water of the lake. Up to his knees, and completely still. Not even a ripple tarnished the surface.

Not even a ripple reached Merlin, as Arthur's body drifted into the distance.

The water still glistened, under a sun that kept shining. A world visibly unchanged, but for the life of one man. But to Merlin it had ended. And so had he.

Vague notions occurred to him. He should get a message to Camelot, really, that Arthur was dead. He should get out of the lake or he'd freeze in sodden clothes. He should burn the boat.

But there was no sense of urgency, and for a long while Merlin stood silently and motionlessly as time slid by unnoticed and unheeded. A faint wind had picked up and he was considerably shivering by the time he dragged himself to start his first task, which he had decided was to burn Arthur's body. Or else the boat would vanish from sight, and be condemned to drift. A vessel of rotting flesh and bones.

He raised his hand, with no need to fix his gaze in the direction of his casting. Not once had it shifted elsewhere. A quick command, a burst of flames, that should be all it took. But the usual ease did not come, and Merlin found himself reaching and then grappling for his magic with growing frustration. It refused to spring to attention although it was most definitely there-and listening, swelling within him at each attempt of use. Burning. A flicker of terror broke through Merlin's relative passivity as he realised he could not control it, it was like trying to use a stranger's limb, it was unrecognisable, it didn't know where to go. Trying to stop it also proved useless, it burned painfully at the surface, hotter and hotter, unbearably, wildly, roaring in his ears and rising like a scream until-

Fire exploded across the lake. As far as could be seen flames tore through the water. The whole horizon was ablaze, and suddenly Merlin was standing in an inferno, submerged…but untouched. Protected. And so, he could see, was the boat, still steadily floating without so much as a singe.

It had been building for a long time, the anger. Certainly months, likely years, and possibly a lifetime. It had been kept back-by necessity, by mercy, by purpose. Always cheerful, was Merlin, always trying to smile. Not so much recently, but still kind, still trying.

But the boat wouldn't burn for him. And, finally… _finally_ , he snapped.

Willing it, the flames leapt higher and further. They rolled like waves over the banks, over the grass, and climbed the trees. Smoke began to choke the air. Even the sky turned orange.

Still, the boat did not burn. Because Merlin could still see it, surrounded by smoke and by flames he could still see _it_ , it was all he could see, taunting him…

"Merlin!"

…He pushed harder, as he could see through the fire it would obey him, surely-

"Merlin! Stop! STOP!"

Why wouldn't it listen? Burn it all, anything, everything, he strived to let go of something he sensed in his mind, something clinging on, some instinct…like breathing, if he thought, paid attention, told it to stop…

He flinched slightly as felt something scold his leg…

Keep going, he persisted, do it, do it-

He muffled a cough as he inhaled smoke, his eyes were stinging, and it was so hot and at last the boat was burning…

"STOP! RUN!"

" _Merlin_."

Arthur? Arthur was burning…

"MERLIN!"

And then something was jerking him backwards-no, someone was, someone else was there, and they were stumbling, falling…

…into a shock of icy water. Only that and the swirling grey smoke surrounded them. The fire had gone.

Taking choking, shuddering breaths between coughs, Merlin was aware of someone thumping him on the back.

"What the hell were you doing?"

Percival.

"I was…" He didn't know how to explain the feeling that had taken over him. "I don't-" A barrage of coughs interrupted him. "I don't know-"

"You nearly burnt down the whole place, and you just bloody stood there, you could have died."

Merlin didn't reply, and without another word Percival hauled him up and out of the water, half dragging him out of the lake to collapse on the bank together. A few more minutes passed in silence, until Percival spoke.

"You have magic." It was a statement. It almost sounded sympathetic. It wasn't an accusation.

"Yes."

"Arthur's dead." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

Another long pause.

"So's Gwaine."

Merlin's head snapped up from where he had been staring at the charred earth, and a sickening feeling settled in his stomach.

"What?" he asked. "How?"

"Morgana," Percival replied dully, taking over from Merlin in staring at the ground. "She tortured him for information. He tried, but he couldn't…no man can take that."

"What information?" Merlin demanded, and he could see in Percival's face as he looked up that he was surprised by the urgency of the question.

"She wanted to know where Arthur was."

"So Gwaine told her." Merlin's tone was uncharacteristically cold. "That's how she found us."

"Yes, but Merlin-"

"Arthur's DEAD!" Despite himself, he couldn't stop it exploding out of him, or the fury that suddenly gripped him. "Your king is dead!"

"By Mordred!"

"Morgana slowed us down, she scared off the horses! If she hadn't got to us I might have made it in time-"

"Gwaine tried as hard as he could-"

"THEN HE SHOULD HAVE TRIED HARDER!"

The instant the words were spoken Merlin regretted it. But they had been spoken, bellowed even, and Percival's face was as equally disgusted as Merlin's was horrified.

"No," Merlin sighed, "I didn't mean that-"

"Do you know what Gwaine's last words were?" Percival interrupted, standing, putting distance between himself and the former servant at his feet. "Before he died? He said "I failed". That was the last thing he ever thought, after everything he did. And you, his friend, you would say that." For the first time ever, tears were present in the knight's eyes. "That should be no man's last thought."

No, Merlin disagreed. Not no man's.

But not Gwaine's.

"He didn't fail," he said thickly, holding back tears and buckling under guilt. "He didn't fail, I did."

Percival groaned. "No, Merlin-"

"It's my fault."

"Mordred-"

Merin laughed, a harsh, manic sound that startled Percival into silence. "Exactly." He looked up, his gaze level, tears gone, replaced by an unnerving emptiness. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't." Any former anger forgotten, Percival crouched down in front of Merlin, brow furrowed in concern. "It wasn't your fault." He lingered there for a minute, waiting for a reply, but none came. He sighed wearily, rubbing a calloused hand over his face and rising. "Alright. We're going back to Camelot."

"I'm not coming."

"What?"

"I'm not coming," Merlin repeated blankly. "I'm not going back."

"But where are you going then?" No reply. Sensing it was no use or possibly, Merlin thought bitterly, afraid of getting roasted, Percival didn't push the subject. He clapped Merlin on the shoulder, smiled tensely, and set off for the spindly blackened trees that remained of the woods. After a few steps, however, he turned back briefly.

"I won't..." Percival averted his eyes. "I won't tell anyone. About…about what happened. Any of it."

"I don't care."

"Alright," Percival said softly. "But I won't." He turned away once more. "Look after yourself, Merlin."

Another surge of guilt gripped him. "No, Percival, wait," he called, wearily but earnestly. The knight looked back and Merlin tried to force as much of a smile as he could bear. "I'm sorry, it's just I can't…with Arthur and-and Gwaine…I'm sorry. And…" He took a quick, deep breath. "Thank you."

Percival didn't or perhaps couldn't say anymore, but smiled, nodded, and then finally disappeared into the trees.

Left alone, Merlin sat as the sun set, until the last little plume of smoke coming from the centre of the lake faded into tendrils, then into wisps, and then into nothing against the darkened sky. His duty done, he stood. The day was over, but it brought no relief. No number of days would.

He was tired, but had no thought of finding a place to sleep, or even somewhere safe for the night ahead. Instead, forcing himself to turn from the lake, he simply had it in his mind to walk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

It seemed, on that first night, that it was different.

As Merlin walked aimlessly through the trees, the usual rustlings and calls of small animals could not be heard. Earlier winds had died down, and the leaves stood still, bathed in the moonlight of a starless sky. A still, unearthly cold had settled in the air. Besides the sound of his own dull footsteps on the frozen earth, there was silence. It was as if nature itself had fled the forest.

But Merlin hardly noticed. His own thoughts seemed to have slowed to a stop. There was no sense, not in anything. No point. He didn't even know where he was going. Perhaps he'd just keep walking until he dropped, no longer able to carry on. All he knew is that he didn't want to stop, and didn't want to be found.

Yet, there was this feeling, that didn't seem to belong to him-his own emotions had muddled together and congealed, to sit deep inside him like a lump of heavy lead, foreign and sickening. But there was something else. A prickling in his blood, and something akin to adrenaline-but where adrenaline was a burst of icy cold, this was a steadily mounting, fiery urgency quite at odds with his general apathy.

As hours passed, it became impossible to ignore. The prickle evolved into a soreness, all over, as if he had torn every muscle in his body, and despite the definite chill an uncomfortable, feverish heat crawled under his skin.

Exhausted and aching, Merlin stopped to sit for a moment on a mouldering log. And it could only be a moment, he told himself. For some reason it felt important to him to keep moving. For a few minutes he allowed himself to stay there, palms pressing into his eyes as if he could push away the throbbing headache that had accumulated behind them.

 _Maybe I'm ill,_ he thought wryly, _Arthur's dead and I've caught a cold._

A twisted, bitter laugh tore through the silence. He couldn't stop it. It was just so funny. Another thing, on top of everything, as if could be worse.

The crazed laughter started to shake, and was threatening to shatter into sobs, when Merlin realised it was no longer the only sound to be heard. From somewhere deeper in the trees, a high pitched, animalistic wail had answered him.

Stifling himself, he listened. For a moment, he heard nothing, and wondered if he had imagined it in delirium. But then it rang out again, the most excruciated sound, the crying like that of an animal caught in a trap.

Feeling a flicker of compassion and kinship, Merlin stood wearily. Whatever it was sounded badly injured. He would have to try to heal it or, if necessary, put it out of its misery.

Following the keening noise, he stumbled in the general direction of the source. As he had feared, his rest had cost him dearly; exhaustion had settled into total fatigue, every limb now burdened with weakness and a struggle to move. But he was determined to keep going, and to find the animal. Perhaps he could save it.

The cries got louder-he was close. Whatever it was wouldn't be difficult to spot, he thought, under this moonlight. It was a strange cry, but pain often distorted normal animal calls. It could always be magical, which would make any attempt at helping harder, but it was unlikely. It was probably a deer. Although, getting nearer, it was _loud_. Maybe something bigger, then. No, definitely bigger than a deer. It must be right in front of him now. And it sounded…odd, not like any normal prey for a hunter-

Pushing aside a branch, Merlin stopped. Rooted in place, he stared at the scene before him. It wasn't a deer.

It was Aithusa.

And, beneath his racked, curled form, was Morgana.

The young dragon, it became apparent, wasn't injured or trapped. He was crying.

For a long while, Merlin simply watched Aithusa as he lay over the witch's body, occasionally nudging it hopefully only to let out another wail upon receiving no response. Mourning unmistakable, for the only companion the creature had ever truly known. Had cared for, or felt care from. And Merlin, who in his neglection had showed him so little, had killed her.

He had failed them both. Sacrificed them, as he had so much, for Albion. For the dead king. For nothing.

"Aithusa."

He couldn't leave them here, of that he knew. He commanded the dragon to move away, trying to make his tone soft, but only managing a dull monotone. Aithusa only glanced up, and then resumed his sorrowful vigil. Firmer, Merlin tried again, but the cries only increased in grief with reproachful defiance.

He took a step towards the pair, only to halt when a snarl ripped out of the dragon's throat. After a pause, he tried again, this time receiving only a choked, pitiful whimpering in response. When he was close enough, he knelt beside them.

"Aithusa", he said again, his own voice cracking. "I'm sorry."

The dragon looked into his face, then cautiously shifted forwards. At first Merlin thought he was going to bite him, but instead felt Aithusa's head pressing gently into his shoulder. A show of comfort, and of the need to be comforted. Forgiveness.

It was how it should have been, Merlin knew. The last Dragonlord, and the dragon he called into the world, together. Morgana, too-scared and alone with her power. He wondered if she was scared of herself even at the end, deep down, in her darkest thoughts and dreams. If she ever realised, for however a fleeting moment, what she had truly become. He could have helped her.

It was unbearable. The shame of Aithusa's forgiveness, and the sharing of their grief.

When he next asked Aithusa to move aside, he did so without protest, assuming the position of cowering beside Merlin. With one hand resting on Aithusa, Merlin placed the other onto ground before them. Despite the exhaustion still hanging over him, and the ever increasing sensation of feverishness, his magic came to him easily, rushing out of him before the will had even fully crossed his mind and tearing through the earth.

Leaping to his feet, Merlin frantically backed away, pushing the panicked dragon behind him. The ground surrounding Morgana began to cave in on itself, creating a widening chasm in the forest floor that swallowed the body of the former Lady whole.

They watched as the dirt collapsed back into the grave, then sealed over without a hint of the area being touched. Nobody, aside from the two who had witnessed her burial, would ever find Morgana Pendragon's resting place.

Aithusa left Merlin's side to return to her, no longer crying, but curling up resolutely on the spot above where he knew her body lay. For a while, Merlin watched, determined to stand by the dragon despite the screaming presence of the spot Arthur had sat mere hours ago, and his knowledge of his proximity to the clearing in which he died. Although, he'd made no conscious effort to avoid wandering back into the spot. Perhaps, on some level, he'd known he was coming back here all along.

When he could bear it no longer, he left to return to his purposeless journey. Aithusa, he knew, was not ready to come with him. If ever it came to it, he was certain he knew the place where he would be sure to find the dragon again.


End file.
